I was eleven years old before I ever lived in a house with a fireplace. In my early childhood, we lived in several different homes scattered throughout the Tidewater area of Virginia. I suppose the old farmhouses and low-country cottages along land’s end contained wood-burning fireplaces to dry and warm the chill coming off the rivers and tidal creeks, where small fishing vessels and pleasure boats sat anchored at the end of weathered piers. But despite the dependability of at least one wet heavy snow each winter, that particular creature comfort must have been considered a luxury. The brick ranches and tiny frame houses our family populated during our sojourns all lacked a chimney. I have an early memory of standing atop an iron grate in the floor where the oil furnace discharged its warmth to billow through my flannel night gown, as I nervously eyed the inky darkness beneath for any unearthly presence.
We eventually moved to Georgia and settled in on my grandfather’s property in an old single-wide trailer, which my dad slowly converted and replaced with frame construction. The first add-on was a bedroom and bath for my brother, and a small living area with a masonry fireplace he built by hand, from field stones turned up in the gardens by grandpa’s plow. I remember helping him as he built up the chimney, tossing firebrick up for him to catch as he perched on the low-pitched roof.
This fireplace was entirely too large, dominating the tiny space, and it never really drew properly. But to me, it was a thing of rough beauty, a testament to my dad’s imagination and capability. I barely noticed the escaping smoke that eluded the chase and rolled out near the corner of the mantel, when the flames no longer burned hot enough to assert an upward influence. Finally, I had a fitting spot for my Christmas stocking!
In our backyard, some unthinking person had planted a Chinese chestnut tree, and I spent most of the summers avoiding the area completely, as the spines on the hull of that species’ seed pods can wreak havoc even through a pair of sturdy tennis shoes. But in the fall, armed with gloves, pliers and hammer, Dad harvested chestnuts. After nightfall, all other lights extinguished, we lay before our giant fireplace, roasting those chestnuts over an open fire nostalgic as a holiday song, and eating them on the spot.
Much later, when my husband and I purchased the house and made our start together, that hulking stone fireplace fell to the sledgehammer in a necessary remodel. But I credit it for sparking a love of wood smoke to which I have been faithful for a lifetime.
Tent camping, our young children huddled around the fire, listening to coyote song and roasting marshmallows, sometimes burning their fingers, too eager to free the treat from a twisted coat hanger. The first fire of a season in the woodstove that warmed our basement, the smell of burning dust and paint curing on the flue pipe. Autumn night, winter morning, our little dog lying so close on the hearth we think she will roast, eyes closed, paws twitching in a dream. A harvest moon, a cornhole game, Adirondack chairs in a circle, with friends drinking hot cider. A mountain porch, singing Christmas carols fireside under woolen blankets, listening to my mother, her voice a gift still at 86. Harmonizing with her clear soprano, and her grandchildren join in; Silent Night.
Fire is a double-edged sword. Untamed, an alchemy of pain and destruction; harnessed, an affirmation of life, a source of warmth, light and comfort. The wildfire that ravages hillsides is a beast that consumes a lifetime of photographs, erases a home, a community. But well contained inside the stone circle, harnessed by human hands at the hearth, it is the best of friends.
Demystified, the warmth and beauty of a wood fire is simply a byproduct of chemical change. Wood reacts with oxygen and releases other gases that are its primary chemical makeup, such as carbon and hydrogen. Other elements trapped within the cellulose such as magnesium, iron or manganese may provide color to your fire, depending on the temperature at which it is burning. ₁ Unlike a physical change, vapor to water to ice to water again, chemical change transforms the original material. It releases energy, producing heat, and leaves byproducts such as ash or charcoal. Once you set it alight, the wood will never be the same.
A chemical change affects the composition and nature of a substance, not just its state of matter. “When bonds are broken and new ones are formed a chemical change occurs”. ₂
I was reading recently in the book of Acts, waiting with Peter and the early church for a promise from the Son. The mighty wind rushes in, the leaping tongues of flame descend upon their heads, their understanding is enlightened, their spirits are consumed, great power is released and they are forever changed. What a fitting visitation, the essence of God a living fire, consuming, purifying and transforming the human spirit.
Glowing I rise, Ember floating star-ward,
drifting in blue night.
Cooled, stilled, I settle,
dark cinder on the chase.
Sweet incense, float, descend.
Blue flame dances to a cicada rhythm.
It has been a lifetime since I lay at the hearth of that first fireplace, watching the dance of flames in a darkened room. But still I love the sweet smell of that transformation.
₁ http://www.whatischemistry.unina.it/en/burn.html
₂ retrieved 9/14/19 from LibreTexts.Org at
https://chem.libretexts.org/Bookshelves/Physical_and_Theoretical_Chemistry_Textbook_Maps/Supplemental_Modules_(Physical_and_Theoretical_Chemistry)/Fundamentals/Chemical_Change_vs._Physical_Change
